


Bad Luck

by Helicidae



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: M/M, protective!crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helicidae/pseuds/Helicidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The latest passenger of MJN Air takes a little too much interest in a very uninterested and uncomfortable Martin. Cue the protective and angry rest of Gertie's crew - even if it does takes a while (well, no one's perfect).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt here: http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/728.html?thread=170456#t170456

They’d been on site for not twenty minutes, Gertie’s chocks were still firmly in place and (hopefully) would stay so for another hour yet.  Their latest passenger - some middle-aged, entrepreneur-type chap - had arrived far before early and was now missing, twenty minutes after arrival.  Douglas smirked and padded out to where he’d bet just about almost anything (since, after all, he was both rather brilliant and very, very lucky) their erstwhile client was hiding.  He left Arthur and Carolyn bickering as made his way out of the portacabin to the little island of light in the deserted apron that was Gertie.

Taking care not to be too loud Douglas paused in the doorway of their diminutive aircraft, one foot inside and the other still on the metal stairs outside, and listened.  Without the engines purring and roaring into life and in the dark of a winter dawn it was very almost silent.  Blissful, peaceful silence, were it not for the sound of their ever charming captain stuttering even worse than normal. 

Stepping inside and turning to the passenger seats, the familiar sights and smells wrapping around him (the dry smell vacuum cleaners and air con make, old upholstery, instant coffee and the odour of too many people stuck in an enclosed space for too long - familiar didn’t make it pleasant), he smirked anew at the unfamiliar sight presenting itself.  Yes, he congratulated himself, he’d found his client, and his dear captain to boot.  The sight was endearingly - or maybe just hilariously - fun to watch and Douglas lent back, unobserved.

The scene may have been new and strange in many aspects, but it wasn’t particularly surprising.  He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t spent the better part of the last year observing it first hand: Martin’s bad luck was soundly wired in.  From coin tosses to failed attempts at chatting up girls - Douglas hadn’t for the entire time he’d known the poor sap either seen or heard of him successfully pulling or having a proper date, let alone and God forbid, actually being _with_ someone.  The pilot’s bad luck ruled his pitiable, non-existent love life, much as it did everything else, with an iron fist.

It wasn’t as if the drip was undesirable, per se.  He was good looking enough, if Douglas forced himself to consider the situation, and assuming the girl in question was willing to overlook skinniness and lack of height (pun not intended) and his rather alarming ability to flush red enough to put his ungainly mop of ginger hair to shame.  His personality wasn’t too bad either, if one ignored prissiness and the tendency to sulk.  His enthusiasm would have been a plus point if not for the way it caused the man to leap too far and fast at a girl and subsequently cripple himself by breaking both metaphorical ankles.  Still, none of those things really ought to doom a man to bachelorhood for the rest of his life.

Surely the only explanations, other than the dismal prospect of mixing into one small man a complete lack of elegance, confidence, hobbies, time and the ability to function in social events of any kind, was either pure bad luck or sheer undesirability.

And now, as it turned out, Martin’s absolute and utter lack of luck had emerged triumphant over his potential absolute and utter undesirability to - well, if not the fairer sex then to humankind in general.  Bad luck had not only beaten undesirability but thrashed it with lead piping then spat on its ugly remains. 

Because apparently, someone found the unlucky man very attractive indeed, and yet Martin was in no way closer to finding himself a nice girl.

“I’ve never been on a plane this small before,” their passenger was saying charmingly as he shuffled on the seat he was currently occupying, and smiled widely at Martin who was pressed up against the wall on the seat adjacent.  His gangly legs and arms were scrunched up somewhat akin to a dead spider in what appeared to be a futile attempt at avoiding contact.  It was… rather less subtle than the innuendo and sheer force of attention he’d been paying Martin while in the portacabin, but by no means less amusing.

“O-of course,” the pilot replied, voice pitched too high to be in any way dignified.  His eyes were wide and embarrassed and the poor git looked ready to have a panic attack. 

“Oh, the smallest must have been twice this size.” Mr Buckley was a fair few years over Martin, and he relaxed into the seat resolutely.  Greying hair in a fashionable but demure enough cut, nose beaky and handsome eyes in an oval face.  A little over average height, just a little overweight but still managing to be about three of short, skinny Martin.  “Half the price too of course, but that was before my promotion.”  Mr Buckley laughed merrily and Martin twitched, looking like he’d very much like to sink into the wall and disappear, possibly forever.  But the only escape was over the other man’s lap, and he didn’t seem quite that desperate yet.

“Ah, there you are sir,” Douglas said to their unlucky pilot, before he ended up bursting out in laughter, and the utterly relieved expression on Martin’s face almost made him reconsider his intention in speaking up.  Almost, but not quite.

“Oh I’m terribly sorry,” Buckley said, smile turning somewhat pinched.  “I didn’t realise you were looking for me.”

A flicker of irritation and Douglas plastered on his best faux grin.  “Of course not.  The client, after all, is of far more import than our mere captain and pilot.”

It appear that Mr Buckley neither appreciated nor understood sarcasm, and the man frowned slightly as if attempting to calculate whether that was an insult or not.  Weren’t businessmen meant to be intelligent?  Martin didn’t put his disapproving face on as he typically did whenever he sensed mockery from his co-pilot in the near vicinity of passengers, not to mention _to_ passengers. He didn’t flush either, though it may be more accurate to say that he didn’t flush _more_ \- likely to do with the fact that any more blood to the face may well cause some critical damage to his brain from the sheer pressure of it. 

“Yes, well, yes” Martin said, breaking the quiet with his stuttering.  It really was entertaining, and Douglas wondered dryly at the way in which his awkward, prissy captain inspired the most dreadful schadenfreude in what must be the majority of the world’s population.  “I really ought to, go and – and and – see to – to the plane.  That is, walk round.  Do the walk around.  The plane.  Walk around it.  Me.”

“Don’t be silly, Captain,” Douglas said, making leisurely sitting down motions with his hands – which weren’t very necessary at all since Mr Buckley seemed hardly inclined to move and Martin being not quite near enough to the breaking point to clamber over Mr Buckley’s lap.  “As First Commander, infinitely junior to the Captain of this fine aircraft, I insist that I do the walk round instead.”

“No!” Martin squawked, flustered and panicky, and oh look! it _was_ physically possible to flush even more red. “No, Douglas, don’t.  I can do it.  I’ll do it now, in fact.”

“Nonsense,” he replied firmly.  “As always it is my upmost pleasure to serve the captain in any way, shape or form.  I shall go now and see to it that nothing whatsoever shall disrupt the majesty of Captain’s flight.  Please, stay.”

As he turned to go back down the steps, Douglas’ only regret was that he didn’t see Martin’s face as the captain’s plaintive hissed cries of _stop_ Douglas, _wait_ , were ignored.

:

After what must have been the most thorough check over Gertie had ever received - which was impressive not only due to the age of the aircraft but also her stickler captain of late - and which may or may not have included a pop back to the portacabin for a cup of tea, biscuit and chat with his CEO, Douglas meandered back to find and laugh at his unlucky drip of a friend. 

Martin and their truly chivalrous passenger weren’t on the seats anymore, but it didn’t take long for Douglas to find them in the flight deck.  Martin was corralled up into his pilot’s seat, looking for the first time as if he’d rather be somewhere else.  Mr Buckley was standing right behind him, close enough to touch.  The man straightened a little on noticing Douglas’ entry, though his hand didn’t leave Martin’s shoulder.

“Good _morning_ , Mr Buckley, Captain Crieff.  Carolyn and Arthur - that is, the CEO and steward - will be up in a moment,” Douglas said, and watched as Martin stiffen at the words.  The pilot all but sprang from his chair and just as he looked ready to make his escape was herded into the corner by their still smiling passenger, who’s hand quickly went back to the shorter man’s shoulder.  Herd was an accurate description, Douglas mused as Martin flattened himself against the window, if one considered Mr Buckley to be a rather wolfish, overweight sheepdog and Martin to be the woolly, nerve-ridden idiot.

“Yes, yes Mr Buckley -” Martin managed, eyes sliding to one side as he looked anywhere but the man in front of him. 

“Jim,” Mr Buckley said glibly, “call me Jim, Martin.  I’ve said before.”

“Mr Buckley -” Martin continued, and something in his tone soured Douglas’ enjoyment of the scene.  His words were light and forced but Douglas didn’t have to be as brilliant at people as he was to realise fear when he heard it.  “If - if you could go back to your seats - seating - seat now.  Seat now. Please.”  It really was rather pathetic, and didn’t seem quite as funny as when he’d laughed over it with Arthur, Carolyn smirking begrudgingly in the background. 

“And quite right he is,” Douglas interrupted before either Jim Buckley could say anything or Martin make an even bigger fool of himself.  “The sooner we leave the sooner we’ll get there, and I for one heartily disagree with any saying that the journey is more enjoyable than the destination.  Come along, Jim, back to the seats.” 

Douglas paused as he turned around.  Was it a trick of the admittedly poor light?  Mr Buckley was in the way so he could hardly see clearly, but had their passenger’s hand been rather a lot lower than Martin’s shoulder?  It had looked more as if he’d has his hand on the pilot’s waist or hip, and something in Douglas prickled angrily at the thought, like the hackles on a dog.  His previous humour was well and truly curdled.  Still, Mr Buckley was standing behind him placidly and followed to sit back down in the passenger seats.  He smiled mildly at Arthur as the boy accosted him for introductions, even though they’d already met before, and put on his seatbelt when the light came on. 

Douglas went back to the flight deck and sat down.  Martin was back in his chair and didn’t say anything, staring with determination at the window in front of them.  He didn’t say anything at all except for his beloved checks, and even biting those out with the least number of syllables possible, until they were well into the sky.

:

“Coffee!” Arthur said, enthusiastically, as he barged his way into the flight deck.  “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

Neither of the two pilots replied.  Undaunted, Arthur tried again.  “I mean, what with the sun and the sea, and those little bits of cloud down there that’re like tissues when you forget to take them out of your pockets before they go in the wash.  And those tiny white waves that look like they could be dolphins but never are.  Oh!  There’s one!  … nope, not a dolphin.  Another one!  Nope, not a dolphin either.” 

The mumble and roaring of Gertie continued, uninterrupted.  “You all right, chaps?”  Arthur said, a little tentatively this time.  “Only, someone would have told me to shut up by now, normally.  There’s not… not something wrong, is there?”

“No, everything’s fine.”  It was Martin who spoke, voice mumbling a little as he tucked his chin down into his chest.  “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Don’t worry, that’s no problem Skip.  Oh! Gotta dash - can’t let the glue dry -”  Arthur brightened immediately, beaming at the thanks, and wasted no time in bounding off again.

“I have to say, Martin,” Douglas said, clearing his throat.  “I thought piloting was bad enough, but never become an actor, will you?”

“I - I wasn’t _acting_ , why on Earth - why would I be acting?  Everything’s fine.  I am _perfectly_ fine.”  Martin’s voice rose several notches with each word. 

“My point exactly,” Douglas murmured.  Martin looked indignant and it was somehow gladdening to see that half-pouting, affronted expression back, even when it was supremely annoying in itself.  The younger man uncurled a little, let his shoulders drop from hunched and shuffled his feet.  Another couple of miles passed, uneventful.

“Hey, Skip!” Arthur appeared in the doorway, grinning wildly.  “I think Mr Buckley’s missing you.  He’s asking if he can come up to the flight deck.”  Douglas glanced over just in time to catch Martin visibly flinch at the name and suggestion.  Ah, well, mystery solved, cased closed then.  Not that it had been much of a secret to begin with, but just making absolute sure.  “Mum said yes but I thought I’d better ask you first, you being the captain and all.  That and mum was doing this weird smile thing so I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not.  You know the type.  Bit like this.”

Martin wasn’t looking at the strange grimaces Arthur’s mouth was contorting into.  “No,” he said tightly, then again, louder but no less strangled: “no.  No, I really don’t think - no.  Arthur, please don’t let him up.”

“Aww, but -” Arthur started, before Douglas cut him off.

“Arthur, when Martin starts to repeat himself four times in the same sentence, it generally means that he’s lying through his teeth.  However, this time…”

“He’s lying because he repeated himself four times in the same sentence?”

“No.”

“Oh.”  A pause.  “But you just said that - no - I don’t get it.”

“You don’t, do you?  What I’m trying to get at is that no, Mr Buckley is not allowed here: not now, not when we’ve landed, and at no moment in between or thereafter.  Ever, in fact.”

“Ah.  Right, well, okay then.”  Momentarily thrown, Arthur glanced at Martin for a second before trooping off, returning cheer evident in the renewed bouncing of his footsteps.

“Thank you,” Martin said, after a moment.  Douglas considered saying something witty in return, half a dozen things coming to mind.  Somehow none of them seemed very appropriate.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured instead, quietly.

:

They had landed at half-way mark, the sound of Gertie greedily refuelling droning on in the background, and Douglas couldn’t help but feel a small worry gnawing in his stomach as he reboarded the aircraft.  Their damned passenger had got off when they’d landed - to stretch his legs he’d said - but now was yet again missing.  Carolyn was behind him and grumbling under her breath about the cost of the trip, the clip of her heels on the rusty steps impatient. 

With no small amount of trepidation Douglas stepped into the aeroplane.  Turning to the passenger’s seats Douglas stopped abruptly at the sight presenting itself, and felt something cold twist inside of him.  Yes, he’d found Mr Buckley all right.  God-damned Mr Buckley who was all but leaning over Martin, one hand pressed flat against the wall to the side of the cringing pilot, the other resting heavily on Martin’s waist and slipping dangerously close to the small of his back.  Behind him Carolyn hissed, angry, like a cat.  Buckley was smiling again, whispering something too quiet for Douglas to hear. 

Not that he wanted to hear it anyway.  Martin wasn’t blushing red now.  He was pale and breathing too fast, long fingers clawed against the wall at his back. 

Douglas prided himself in rationality, on being able to keep calm in any and all situations.  It certainly hadn’t hurt in his career as a pilot; it certainly didn’t make a blind bit of difference as he strode forward and grabbed Jim Buckley’s shoulders, pulling him back with a not inconsiderable amount of force.  The man yelped, startled, and tried to break free as Douglas pushed him down the isle and unceremoniously onto his chair.

“What the - what is this?” Buckley shouted, trying to stand up again.  Douglas shoved him back down.  “You have no right to treat me like this - get _off_ me! I demand you get off of me!”

“Oh, I am most _terribly_ sorry,” Douglas said loudly, sarcasm so thick it was near tangible.  “I thought unnecessary and inappropriate physical contact was a part of your culture.  Do forgive me.”

Mr Buckley’s face was red.  “How dare you! I could sue you for - for abuse, you’ll be fired!” 

In the background Carolyn was speaking: “Arthur, shut up.  Now is _not_ the time.  Go and see to Martin.”  Douglas ignored her.

“Oh, abuse, is it?”  He said.  He let go of the man’s shoulders but didn’t step back, blocking the way out of the chair.  “Isn’t that, I don’t know, rather like _harassment_?  Which can _also_ be sued for?”

“Get the hell away from me,” Buckley said, deflated but still angry.  “If this is how you treat your clients I’ll find someone else to fly with.”

There was an electric ding in the background.  “ _Oops._ ”  Douglas poked a finger at the man’s chest.  “I’m sorry, but the seatbelt sign has now been turned on prior to take-off.  Please stay in your seat, leave all electronic equipment turned off and shut the hell up, _thank you._ ”

:

The four of them sat squashed in the flight deck, watching Asia crawl on underneath them.  No one was speaking but Arthur had started to hum a tune under his breath, though no one had any idea as to what the tune might be or have once been.  Carolyn went out and returned a few minutes later with coffee and a packet of old biscuits, which no one ate except for Arthur, who finished them. 

“I really think you could turn the seatbelt signs off -” Martin started.

“No.” Carolyn interrupted, steely, in a voice she usually reserved for her son.

“I mean it has been five hours and there’s no turbulence -”

“I said no and I mean no, Martin.”

A brief lull, in which Arthur’s humming mangled together a couple of Christmas carols and the Telletubbies theme tune.

“He should probably get lunch, though, seeing as he did pay for it -”

“Oh, for the love of - no.  Just, no.  Martin, please do shut up.  If I didn’t need the money as much as I do I’d have kicked him out in Russia, gladly and quite likely literally.  As it is I need the money but have no desire whatsoever to see that he has a pleasant journey.  And that includes food.”

“Actually, Carolyn,” Douglas spoke up.  “Actually I think he should get some lunch.”  At his CEO’s sharp look he continued.  “Nothing _special_ , of course, but as Martin said, he is paying for it.  We simply _have_ to feed him.  I was just thinking more of - oh, that stew Arthur has… marinating in the fridge.”

“What!” Arthur said, while Carolyn’s eyes narrowed in understanding.  “Not my Everything In Stew!  I was saving that for you guys.”

“My point exactly,” Douglas muttered.  Arthur looked offended, but only for a moment before it bounced off, and he grinned too.  Carolyn looked at her watch and shooed her son up out of the flight deck.

“Well, it’s about lunchtime.  Go and give him your stew, Arthur, will you?  Make sure to heat it up properly, don’t forget to let it stand for, oh, I don’t know, you guess how many minutes.  Oh and Arthur?”  Carolyn called to her son’s retreating back.  “As an apology for the delay, give him a free large drink.  Two if he wants it, but don’t forget to tell him that the turbulence should be almost over.”

“You’re switching off the seatbelt sign?” Douglas asked.  He glanced sideways furtively and saw that Martin was no longer tensed and too pale but smiling, if just a little: an awkward, crooked tilt to the lips.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”  Carolyn said, primly.  “Don’t be stupid.”


End file.
